Defeating the Dark Lord
by Exia
Summary: How the Dark Lord dies.


Defeating the Dark Lord

The battle had gone on for some time now, and one side clearly had the upper hand. Two indistinct figures battled it out, moving back and forth, their hands and feet moving about in a strange rhythm, as if they were enacting some age-old dance.

Each held pieces of wood in their hands, and each piece of wood cast out flashes of light at irregular intervals, sometimes striking the other, sometimes careening off to the side at the last minute as if it had decided to go elsewhere, and, occasionally, missing the mark all together.

Both figures were male, one was tall and slender, with a bald head and eyes narrowed to slits; the other was rather short and skinny, giving the impression of stunted growth and malnutrition, a mop of untidy black hair sitting atop his head and a pair of thick, black-rimmed, and very taped, glasses framing startled green eyes. It was the tall and slender one who was winning, and the world itself seemed to hold it's breath, hoping against all hope that the mop-haired boy would win out against the slit-eyed man.

The boy ducked to the side, narrowly missing a shot from his opponent that had come at him in the form of a blast of green light. Glancing upward, he had a momentary flash of dismay before his foot landed in a hole in the earth and twisted, sending a jolt of pain up his leg to explode directly behind his eyes. Gasping aloud, and momentarily stunned, the boy heard an evil cackle sound from somewhere above and to the right of him, and he knew his time was up.

Gathering his courage, the boy turned his head and stared directly into the face of his murderer, unwilling to face his fate cowering in the dirt like a bug.

A flash of irony ran through him, and the mop-haired boy could not help but appreciate it in relation to his current situation. Who would have thought that his secret admirer of the past two months was the bald snake standing in front of him? Or that he had set up this midnight tryst for the express purpose of drawing the raven-haired youth out of the security of the castle and out into the open where he could be more easily killed?

In a greenhouse no less.

They were still on the castle grounds, no more than two-hundred feet from the side entrance, yet he might as well have been a million miles away. For here he lay, the supposed savior of the world, curled on one side, his ankle undoubtedly broken, waiting for the final curse to be sent, the one that would end it all.

Staring into the blood-shot eyes of his opponent, the youth vaguely heard the sound of the greenhouse door opening, followed by a very alarmed yell.

Having also heard the sound, the bald man turned, only making it half way before there was a tremendous bang and an overpowering flash of light.

Eyes still watering, the raven-haired boy uncurled himself from where he lay on the ground and stared at the nasty smear on the ground in front of him. Dazedly, he turned his head towards the door and was confronted with the sight of another boy, his age, who stood, trembling, in the doorway, his bit of wood on the ground at his feet, thought the lighting obscured his features.

Unable to comprehend what had happened, the mop-haired boy turned his head again and stared at the smear in front of him. Whetting his lips, he croaked, "What did you do?"

"Oh, I, just…uh.." The other boy stumbled over to where he lay on the ground and helped him stand gingerly on his good foot. "Well," the new boy said. "I couldn't sleep, so I decided to wander the grounds a bit. I heard the noise and decided to investigate."

"But….why --?" Again, the dueling youth stared at the smear. "How?"

"I don't know." The other answered. "I'm not sure what was going on, were you practicing your deuling or something?"

"No," the dueler stated. "I was fighting."

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord." He said, for once in his life unable to say the snake-man's true name.

The other gasped, and nearly dropped the dueler, and the two continued on for a moment in silence.

"Do…do you think he's gone?" the other asked tentatively.

"I think so." The dueler said, wondering who this mysterious boy next to him was.

As they emerged from the dimness of the greenhouse into the light of the full moon, the mop-haired boy finally got a glimpse of his savior.

"…Neville?"

ooOO00OOoo

A/n: This story is dedicated to my fiancé, Satir. He hates Harry (yes, I'm dating Snape's fair-haired twin.) and thinks Neville should be the Chosen One. This one's for you, Babe!


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